The Men in the Chevy Impala
by TheMightiestPen2
Summary: "Dean," Sam grins almost manic. "We're Poirot! Hercule Poirot!" "Excuse me, what?" Or: the boys encounter a mystery that feels very...Agatha Christie. It's all fun, until it isn't. Set season 2, post 2x11 "Playthings"/ Slightly crack-taken-seriously.


The Men in the Chevy Impala

(**A/N: **Well, I'm back in this fandom! This is a bit of a weird one, but I had fun with it. Just as a small content warning, there is a passing reference to predatory sexual coercion in this story. It is very brief and implied rather than stated, just in case that is something you want to know about. I hope you enjoy the story!)

Sam is dreaming again.

Usually, this would suck. Sam sure has had some doozies in his time, and has ever since he'd been a kid. Pastor Jim had called it his "active imagination" and Dean had called it his "thinking too much" and Dad had never called it anything at all, but it had been part of him for as long as he could remember. Then they started coming true, and, well, that sucked even more, quite frankly. It really put everything into perspective when you found out that the pain you were dreaming about was actually real.

This time, though, it's different.

For one, Sam knows it's a dream. Everything is all shimmery, like in his visions, but less painful and definitely more stable. Time is being weird and not passing by at all so that helps.

For another, there's somebody else here too. Sam's pretty sure it's Hercule Poirot.

Well, the David Suchet version, to be specific. He's a little shimmery too but it's still pretty clearly him. He's looking at Sam and smiling. And then he speaks.

"Hello, Sam."

Sam jerks back, ignoring the _oh shit do I have a physical self in my own mindscape _that mutters somewhere in distance. "What the _fuck_?"

Well. This is certainly new.

Poirot (fucking _Poirot_) holds his hands up slowly, defensively. "I do not have much time."

Sam blinks and decides that he's just gonna go with it. "Okay. Okay, Hercule Poirot. What?"

"You need to find me," Poirot says, his voice warping, losing its detectively authority. "You need to save me."

Sam nods, throat dry. "Okay," He says cautiously, but before he can say anything else everything disappears and breaks and Sam's eyes fly open.

He lies there for a while, chasing the feeling that accompanied him out of the dream and then sits up slowly. The motel digital clock face tells him it's 6 AM, which means he's hit a full five hours. Wonderful.

He hoists himself to the side of the bed, and something in that movement wakes Dean up.

"Sam?" Dean twitches and then sits up, voice muffled with sleep. "What?"

Sam sighs. "Dude," He says, putting his head in his hands. "I think Hercule Poirot is in trouble."

Dean squints at him, opens his mouth, closes it, then flops back down on the mattress. "Go to back sleep, you fucking nerd."

* * *

They're finally taking it easy, for once.

Sam thinks it probably has something to do with his little disappearing act in Indiana, or maybe with his drunken confessions in that hotel, but either way Dean has put his foot down and the search for the next hunt is less desperate than it has been since their dad died.

This leaves Sam more time alone with his own thoughts, which isn't good for anyone. He doesn't say anything about it, though, because the bags under Dean's eyes and the expression on his face when he thinks Sam isn't looking makes it clear that Dean's the one that needs the break. Sam's not going to dump more of his shit on Dean unless he has to, so he concedes without any fuss.

It's also why, when they're walking to the Dunkin' Donuts in a small Ohio town, that Sam just rolls his eyes when Dean says "Hercule Poirot? Really?"

"I don't control what I dream, man."

"I'm just…I honestly didn't think you could ascend to a higher plane of geekdom than you already have. But, dude…I think you've outdone yourself with this one." Dean shakes his head, grumbles under his breath. "If you wake me up one more time with your wet dreams of rescuing fictional old men I'm gonna beat your ass."

Sam can see a hint of a smile peek through, and knows he hasn't heard the end of this. So he just sighs and takes it.

That's his first mistake.

* * *

Two weeks later, they're in Lawrenceville, Pennsylvania. Dean's eyes are looking a little less haunted and Sam thinks they can start to ease their way back into the big leagues. He scours online news sources for a while and strikes gold.

"So get this," Sam tells Dean that evening, over an overdressed chicken ceasar and a Diet Coke. "I found something weird over in New Hampshire. There's been a rash of cat disappearances, all happening in the past week, all from the same neighbourhood. 7 gone so far, all from inside their homes, and no witnesses to anything."

"Okay?" Dean asks, taking a swig of beer. Only his second of the day. "We sure it's just not someone who really hates cats?"

Sam leans back in his chair. "Could be. But there's been complaints about heaters randomly going on the fritz in that same area. Apparently, sometimes they just decide to chug out cold air instead of heat."

"Maybe the cat serial killer also has a passion of turning heaters into ACs." Dean says, but Sam knows he's interested. "You thinking ghost?"

Sam shrugs. "Cold spots, disappearances…granted, it's not usually animals but weirder things have happened." He slams the laptop shut and pushes it to the side, eyeing his half-eaten salad.

"Okay, it's about a…" Dean does the math in his head. "Six hour drive? Give or take. We'll get there by late afternoon if we leave early enough." He takes a big bite of his burger and also gives Sam's salad a wilting look. "Dude, you should've gotten something less sucky. I'm reminding you of this next time you waste hard-earned pool cash on something you don't even eat."

Sam rolls his eyes because he's expected to, but feels something lighten in his chest. They're starting to feel normal again. It's exactly what he's been hoping for.

* * *

The trip to Canterbury, New Hampshire, is uncommonly good. After talking through various plans and theories regarding the cat-bandit ghost, Dean pops in a Metallica tape and starts to sing along to it obnoxiously. He hasn't done that since…well, since Chicago, really, and Sam is so relieved about it he joins in. They sing through the whole tape like they haven't heard it a million times, and celebrate every time a new song comes up even though they've memorized the tracklist. Three hours in, Dean graciously allows Sam to drive the rest of the way and even consents to letting him flip through the radio to find something more suited to his tastes.

It's great. It's fun. Sam can barely believe it.

They leave late but traffic is good, and they make the drive in about six and a half hours. They check into a relatively good motel with a shower head that goes up higher than Sam's chin. The motel clerk is mean and eyes their credits cards and clothes and bags suspiciously but hey, can't have everything.

They finalize their approach to the case as they toss their stuff on the motel beds. "So, we're animal control investigating a possible escaped beast?"

"Yeah I think that works best." Dean hops onto the bed without unpacking, crossing his legs and leaning against the headboard. "We can talk vaguely about 'creatures' and shit that way. And I think they'll let us search the houses if they think we're looking for, like, a mutant raccoon or something."

"Fair enough." Sam wrinkles his nose at Dean's shoes on the bed but doesn't comment. "8 AM tomorrow?"

"You bet," Dean closes his eyes. "In the meantime, looks like the local diner has breakfast-for-dinner and dude, I am getting so many pancakes. Oh, and we should probably think about getting more cash while we're here."

"Sure." Sam unzips his duffel, trying to make it loud so Dean gets the point. "I might turn in early, though, so I'll do my games first."

Dean opens his eyes, frowns. "But…"

"I'm tired." Sam shrugs, wrestling out his toiletries bag. "You should stay up if you want, though. Have some fun."

Dean squints at him and then relents. "Okay, man. You probably shouldn't wait up though."

Sam snorts. "Of course not."

* * *

They leave right on time the next day. Despite his promises, Dean makes it back at a reasonable hour, and he's not even all that wasted. They're able to get to their first interview of the day—a concerned, older gentleman who makes sure to show them photos of his grandkids and the missing cats—with a wealth of information, including an EMF reading in the room where the cat was last seen.

"So, it's a ghost, right?" Sam says as they pull out of the man's driveway and towards the library.

"Looks like." Dean says. "Hey, think we can ask the librarian if any cat-haters died recently?"

They don't find anything, but they don't really expect to. More fieldwork is needed to determine whether there are any connections between the neighbourhood and the cats. They decide to use the same approach the next day and turn in early again.

The next day, the front page of the local newspaper announces that the man they had seen was found dead in his kitchen, covered in his own blood with no visible wounds on his body.

* * *

"_Shit_." Sam says, running a hand through his hair as he stares at the newspaper. "Dean, what the hell happened?"

Dean looks serious. He can tell because all he's ordered so far is coffee, and it's going cold in his hands. "I don't know, but we just went from zero to sixty real fucking fast. Why the hell has this thing broken the pattern? Think it senses it's in danger?"

Sam shakes his head, at a loss. "I don't know, but dude, this thing's M.O. just changed drastically overnight. Ghosts take, like, ages to become this violent. It's gotta be a recent death, right?"

"If it even is a ghost." Dean mutters, sipping at his coffee and wrinkling his nose at the temperature. "Why do we never get the easy ones, man?"

Sam shrugs, pained. He knows break time is over, and now it's time to get serious.

* * *

They canvas every house with a disappearance the next day. It's more difficult than it was because they now have a confirmed human casualty, but the police don't seem to have connected the missing pets to the murder just yet. So they interview every family and come up with the following series of victims:

Joseph Kinney, 68, lived alone, family man with three children and four grandchildren. Killed in his home.

Sofia Garner, 29, has inherited the house from her parents, who had died in a car accident ten years earlier. The missing cats were also theirs.

Damian and Kristen Finnley (30 and 26 respectively), a couple who have recently moved into the neighbourhood, have a two-year old named Robby and three cats. All three are now missing.

What is most interesting, however, are Mark and Tilly Herring. They're dead center among all the affected houses, forming a midpoint. They've lived in the neighbourhood since they had their son Arthur twenty-three years ago. Their now-deceased son. The son who had died a few weeks ago, which is right on schedule to work himself up into a spirit that causes problems. The son whose death was a brutal, unsolved murder, chalked up as a mugging: wrong place, wrong time. The son who, despite living in a house with cats practically his whole life, was allergic to them.

Huh.

They corroborate this information with trips to the library. Sam hacks into the police database, the coroner's office, and finds a goldmine of information that determines a violent death.

It's pretty tragic. By all accounts, Arthur was a good kid in a happy family. He loved animals and was a voracious reader of detective fiction. He'd just graduated from UNH with a Masters degree in political rhetoric, was bound to pursue his dreams of becoming a state senator some day.

Of course, a good life doesn't mean shit when your death is violent. Your spirit can come back angry and murderous no matter who you used to be. Sam knows this all too well.

* * *

Of course, because they're the Winchesters, any progress is always immediately thrown back in their face.

"Salt and burn?" Dean asks wearily, looking over Sam's shoulder, staring at the police report on the laptop. Usually, he's excited for the prospect. Now, he just looks tired.

Sam gets it. It's never fun when you've just gotten to know the person you have to burn, when you have to listen to the family cry about their loss. Especially when the victim is so young. Especially when the victim is around your age.

"Guess so," Sam nods wearily, pulling up the website for the burial plot. "Lemme just find the…oh."

Dean, who has turned away, whirls back around. "What?"

Sam flips the laptop around. "He was cremated, dude. They buried his ashes."

"Aw, come on." Dean sighs, exasperated. "Okay. So. Something's probably keeping him here, right? So that means…"

"Yup." Sam sighs, leaning back in his chair, lacing his head behind his hands. "Back to the parents."

Dean sinks down onto the straight-backed chair across from Sam's. "Dammit. So, what, we gonna ask them 'hey, did your dead son leave anything behind that he might have an attachment to? Great, now can we burn it?' That'll go over well."

"I know," Sam says, deep in thought. "It's gonna be a tough one. But, if we end up having to be honest with them, we can say that he probably would prefer to move on instead of stick around haunting them and hurting their friends. I don't know how much comfort it'll be but I think it's the best shot we have."

Dean stays quiet. Sam continue staring at the small imperfections on the table's surface, trying to think through potential plans. It takes him a while, but he notices that the silence is an angry one.

Sam looks up, startled. "Dean? What is it?" He lowers his arms back onto the table, anchoring himself.

Dean's nostrils flare. "Sure, they'll be perfectly fine with finishing him off and letting him die, huh? Just because _he'll _feel better about the whole thing?"

"…what? I'm sorry, Dean, I don't underst—"

"Of course you don't." Dean stands up suddenly, pushing the chair back. "I'm going out. I'll see you in a few."

"Wait, I—"

Dean slams the door on his way out. Sam sits there, startled, flicking back through what he's said. When he realizes it he groans, covering his face. _Nice going, Sam._

Seems like they haven't healed from his fuck ups after all.

* * *

They leave at a languid 9 AM the next day. Dean had gone to the bar that evening and this time had returned drunk. He'd stumbled around the motel room for a bit, aimless, before collapsing into bed and sleeping it off. Sam didn't dare say anything about it. He knows he has to at some point. But not yet.

They return to the Herring household, this time asking for follow-up questions about the missing cats. The couple is hopeful, they want to get them back. Sam wishes he could do that for them. It probably won't make up for the loss of their son, but God knows these people could use a break after that.

He's talking softly to Tilly—a sweet, sad woman in her early 50s, who looks like she can't quite grasp what is happening around her in any concrete sense—and Dean is surreptitiously scanning the living room, looking for "animal footprints" that are actually trinkets of the dead 23-year old. Everything is going to plan, until there's a knock on the door.

Sam and Dean glance at each other. Mark excuses himself gruffly and stalks to the door, pulling it open. Outside stand the other neighbors: Sofia, Damian, and Kristen (without Robby). They all look upset.

At this point, Sam's back is to Dean, but he swears he can feel the atmosphere tense behind him, that he can hear Dean reach for the concealed handgun he keeps on him at all times.

"What the hell?" Sofia demands, barging into the house. She's followed by the others. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Excuse me—" Sam tries, but he's cut off by Mark.

"What are you talking about?" He barks. "You barge into my home and expect me to—?"

"_This_!" Sofia pulls out a piece of paper, shaking it furiously. "I'm going to call the _police_, you fucking psychos, and I—"

"Ex_cuse _me!" Dean says, with that air of command he puts on when he tells Sam to _Stay the fuck behind me or I swear to God._ Sam turns to look at him and yup, he has the expression on too. "I need everybody to calm down right now! You—" He points a finger at Damian, who looks the calmest of the lot. "Explain what's happening _right now_."

Damian responds to the tone, and reports acerbically. "We're just here for an explanation about the letters."

"What letters?" Sam asks, after giving Tilly's hand a reassuring pat. The poor woman looks scared out of her mind.

"The letters that these two left on our doorsteps," Damian responds, turning his icy glare onto Sam. "Demanding that we show up here or they'll 'ruin us all'." He punctuates the last words with air quotes. Damian's a bit of a sarcastic fucker, Sam thinks.

Dean turns around, hands on his hips, to Mark. "Can you explain this, please?"

Mark looks white-faced. "I didn't leave any letters," He says, and that's when the door slams shut behind them.

* * *

Kristen screams. Sam runs to the front door, tries to turn the knob, but its stuck. The blinds on all the windows screech down sharply, cutting them all off from the sunlight. Dean's swearing on the other side of the room, clearly having similar issues with the door to the kitchen. They're trapped.

"What the _fuck _is happening?" Damian bellows, unusually loud. Sam ignores him, curses inwardly that he hadn't thought to bring the salt, what was he thinking? What would Dad say?

"Calm down!" Dean gets back to the group, trying to corral them to the couches. "We just have a bit of a ghost situation on our—"

Kristen screams again and gestures to the corner of the room. A shadowy figures stands there, arms outstretched, pointing to the group.

"_Confess_!" It shrieks, ear-splitting, then vanishes as quickly as it came.

* * *

"Everyone, sit down!" Dean barks, pointing them all to the couches. "Quickly!"

Something in his tone spurs them on. The group still standing stumbles their way to the couches, collapse in them. Damian is shaking, and Kristin is babbling at him incoherently. The rest of them are silent, Sofia is crying. Tilly seems the calmest, although Sam thinks its because she's not quite with it enough to understand that something is seriously wrong.

Sam pulls out his gun—it won't do that much against a ghost, but he feels better with it on him—and backs up to cover the group. "Mark," Sam says calmly "Do you have any salt in this room right now?"

"I…no."

Dean huffs, pulling out his gun too. "Okay. Just…hang back folks. Let us know if you see anything." He gestures to Sam, beckoning him over.

Sam reluctantly abandons his post and shuffles over, gun still out.

"What are you thinking?" Dean says immediately, leaning towards him. "How the hell are we getting this one?"

"No salt, obviously, but…" Sam looks around "Iron?"

Dean shakes his head. "Not in this room, dude. I checked, when I was doing recon. Also looks like we're stuck here for right now. Any alternatives you can think of?"

Sam runs a hand through his hair. "Um…ok, so it clearly wants something, right?"

Dean raises an eyebrow. "I mean. Yeah. I'm guessing it wants one of these folks to admit to something. Think if we pull for a confession, Arthur here disappears?"

"I guess so…but Dean, maybe it's more than one of them. Why'd you think they all got the letters?"

Dean frowns. "You think that was the ghost? What, they using USPS now? What the hell?"

"I don't know, man." Sam shrugs. "All I know is it's one hell of a coincidence that they're all lured over here just as we pull this all together. It's just…it's weird. Even for us."

"You bet your ass it is." Dean sighs, stows away his gun. "Okay, looks like Arthur's shared with the class and he's staying away for now. We'll talk to these people and make 'em confess what they have to confess. Maybe he'll poof away and it'll all be over."

Sam snorts. Dean smiles at him wryly. "Yeah, I know. Unlikely. But I think it's our only play."

Sam nods, makes to store away his own gun, but Dean stops him. "No, wait. Keep yours on you. Never know when it might come in handy."

Sam shrugs, holding it loosely in his hands.

They make their away over to the group on the couches, who are staring at them wearily. Dean claps his hands together and it sounds like a gunshot. "Okay, folks. Looks like we have a pissed-off ghost on our hands. We've gotta get rid of it, and from what we can tell it wants people in this group to confess to doing it wrong. Any takers?"

Silence.

"…a ghost?" Damian whispers, distraught.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm sorry. You've seen it with your own eyes now. And, hopefully," Dean glances at the older couple. Mark is sitting next to Tilly, holding her hand. "We'll put Arthur to rest quick and nobody's going to get hurt."

Mark makes a chocking noise, but otherwise says nothing.

"Right. So, anyone got something they wanna get off their chest? Something about Arthur, maybe?"

Nobody looks at Dean. Instead, they fidget, glance around aimlessly, look at the ground.

Dean turns back to Sam, exasperated. "Looks like we're gonna have to talk them through this."

Sam's not paying attention, though. Sam is looking at the crowd gathered in the living room with narrowed eyes, deep in thought.

"Sam?" Dean snaps his finger in front of Sam's eyes. Sam decides to ignore it. "Dude, you hear me?"

A huge smile spreads across Sam's face. Dean steps back. "Sam. What?"

"Dean," Sam grins almost manic. "We're Poirot! Hercule Poirot!"

"Excuse me, _what_?"

* * *

Sam had gone through an Agatha Christie phase as a kid. The books were easy to get and easy to read, and he spent many long hours in the Impala as a preteen delightedly combing through mysteries and the English countryside and funny Belgian accents. He'd read every Christie book he could find, and whilst a huge fan of _And Then There Were None_, Hercule Poirot held a special place in his heart.

This held doubly true for the television show. It rarely aired on TV, but when it did, Sam would sit down and devour every episode he could get. David Suchet became the narrative voice he heard in his head every time he read a Christie novel, and for good reason. Poirot, in Sam's opinion, was a goddamn legend.

Dean scoffed at the obsession, as he did with most of Sam's childhood phases, but would sit without complaint whenever they were able to catch the show on TV. For reasons Sam never understood, Dean was more of a fan of Albert Finney's Poirot, in the 70s film version of _Murder on the Orient Express_. Dean loved that movie, and loved it proudly. He always claimed it was because Ingrid Bergman was in it, but Sam saw his eyes light up at Sean Connery, Lauren Bacall, Anthony Perkins, and other sophisticated stars that seemed to absolutely fascinate him. When Albert Finney's Poirot showed up on screen, Dean would subconsciously snap to attention, lean forward, and follow his process rapturously.

Sam never got it. David Suchet was clearly superior. It was the subject of much a childhood argument.

And that was why, when Sam made the connection, so did Dean. Even if he wouldn't admit it.

Sam sees Dean look around, take in the couches, the gathered suspects, the need to draw out confessions from all of them, the murder, the high stakes, the detectives at work.

"Oh _dude_," Dean says, half-amused, half-horrified. "Oh _no_."

"Dude," Sam echoes, trying to clamp down on his excitement. "You see it, right? When are we getting an opportunity like this again?"

Dean shakes his head. "Keep it professional, Sammy." Is all he says, but Sam sees a smile playing in the corner of his mouth. If a "fucking _nerd_" is muttered after it, then, well, Sam's not going to comment on it.

* * *

"Okay," Dean says, trying to take back control of the moment, to reassert the seriousness of the situation. "Okay. So. Anyone have anything to say?"

Mark clears his throat "I…I do. I do."

Sam whirls around, looks at him. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Mark nods, darting his eyes back and forth. Then he whispers "Is this real?"

"I'm sorry," Sam says sympathetically, then stops there. Not more he can say, really.

Mark glances at the corner where the ghost was, then takes a breath. "Arthur was adopted," He chokes out fiercely, quickly. "We never told him. We were going to, but we never did. He died before we could. And I'm the one who kept on insisting that he should never know."

Dean blinks. "I…okay," He says. "I'm glad you got that off your chest so easily. You satisfied, Arthur?"

The temperature drops a few degrees.

"The fuck does that mean?" Dean asks Sam.

Sam shrugs. "I'd guess they're not done," He says. "Feels like the spirit is still here."

Dean gives him a loaded glance. Sam thinks _oh no, I didn't mean telepathically _but Dean keeps going before he can verbalize it.

"Anyone else?" Dean asks the gathered crowd. "Who else has something to say about Arthur?"

Tilly moves to cover Mark's hand with her own, but nobody else makes a move. Sam notices that Sofia looks nervous, darting glances back and forth. This shouldn't be weird—she has just found out about ghosts, after all—but Sam thinks she looks a bit guilty as well.

"Sofia?" Sam prods, nodding at her. "Do you have something to confess?"

She shakes her head, movements jerky. "No!" She snaps. "And as far as I know, you're all insane! This is some kind of sick joke and I do not appreciate being treated like this." She stands up and stalks to the door. "Let me _out_!"

Sam moves towards her, stowing away his gun. "Sofia," He says softly. "I'm sorry, but…"

"No!" She pulls at the doorknob, which does nothing. "I won't play this sick game. I refuse to participate!"

The temperature drops suddenly. Sam starts to see his breath fogging up, swirling in thick white clouds.

"What's happening?" Sofia is hysterical, clawing at the door. Sam tries to intervene but she just shoves at him. "Why won't you let me out?"

"Sofia," Sam says urgently, moving towards her again. "Please. He's getting angry. Just, please confess. He might try to hurt you if you don't."

"He will," He hears Dean say behind him. "Why do you think Joseph Kinney never made it to this meeting?"

Sofia gasps. "Joseph knew!" She shrieks. "He's the one who knew and never said anything!"

Sam hears a sharp intake of breath behind him. He's not sure who it is.

"What does she mean?" He hears Kristen whisper.

"Sofia was older than him," Damian responds. "I think she was really pushy. When…when he wasn't ready. Joseph told me. He knew."

Sam's blood runs cold. _Oh no_. "Sofia," He tries again. "Please, you have to…"

"_No_!" Sofia says, kicking the door. "I _won't_! I…" She stops suddenly, backing away from the door.

Sam moves forward. "Sofia?" He says cautiously.

Before he can get to her, she screams—loud and earsplitting—before collapsing on the ground. She heaves an enormous cough and Sam watches as blood spurts across the beige carpet floor of the Herring's living room.

Sam runs to her, kneels down. "Sofia!"

She begins to seize. Sam holds her, panicked and unsure. Dean appears next to him, shouting behind him "Call 911!"

"There's no service!" Damian responds, voice cracking. Sofia continues to seize, eyes rolling, nose bleeding, until she finally stops completely.

Sam doesn't see a rise and fall of her chest. He quickly holds a finger to her neck, waits. No pulse. He swallows a lump in his throat and looks up to Dean, shaking his head.

Dean sits back on his heels. "Shit!" He swears, running a hand though his hair. "Shit!"

Sam reaches forward and closes her eyes. "Surrounded by her own blood, no weapons." He says numbly. "That's what happened to Joseph too."

"Shit," Dean says again, standing up. "Gimme a hand." He tells Sam, and together they move the body to the corner of the room, out of sight.

"She's dead," Dean informs the room coldly when he's done. "Anyone going to keep their secrets now?"

* * *

Kristin begins to sob.

"I can't" She wails, distraught. "I _can't_!"

"You will if you want to survive," Dean says urgently. "You have to. For your son."

Kristin glances at Damian, then looks away. She puts her head in her hands. "Fine!" She bursts out into her hands. "_Fine_! It's…it's about my son. It's about him."

Damian visibly tenses. "Kristin?" He asks.

"He's not yours." Her voice is muffled. "He's Arthur's. He knew. I told him to stay away."

Damian breathes out once, twice. "Okay," He says, voice shaking. "Okay. Okay. We'll…talk later. We'll talk about it later."

Sam blinks. Huh. He took that…well.

His thoughts are interrupted by Tilly. "It's working," She announces to the room. "It's working. He said it would."

"What, Til?" Mark grabs her hand. "What do you mean?"

"The letters. They're working. The ones he told me to send."

Sam kneels down, putting himself on eye level with her. "Who, Tilly?"

"Arthur," She tells him, confidently. "He told me to put the letters there. That he needed everyone here. And he was right. It's working."

"When?" Sam asks gently, belied by his clenched fists.

Tilly looks him in the eye "Yesterday," She says. "Like how he showed up today."

"Oh, Tilly," Mark mutters, head bowing.

Sam stands back up. "Guess that answers that question." He tells Dean quietly.

"Oh, yeah," Dean says grimly. "But…this was premeditated. I don't like that. I don't like that at all."

"I know," Sam replies. "But I think that was her confession. So, only one more to go. And maybe we can get out of here without any more fatalities." He thinks of this point in a Christie novel, and shudders "Or twists. Or bad surprises."

Dean squints at him, like he knows what he's thinking about. "Stay in the moment, Sam." He ends up saying, fixing his gaze on Damian instead. "Your turn, buddy. We'll be done soon. Go for it."

Damian shakes his head once, then takes a deep, shaky breath. "Fine," He says, teeth gritted. "Fine. I knew. About Robby. And that it was Arthur."

Kristin gasps. "What?"

"I figured it out. The timing was weird, with Robby. And…and you were with Arthur, all the time. I confronted him about it. We had it out."

"Forget Poirot, this is a goddamn soap opera." Dean mutters to Sam, but Sam ignores him. He's just had a thought.

"Damian," He says, slowly. "Did you…were you the reason Arthur died? Was that you?"

Damian pales. "No!" He says. "No, I swear. I confronted him months ago. It was at Walmart, we got kicked out. There are witnesses. I swear, I didn't kill him. I wouldn't."

Sam nods slowly. "Okay," He says. "I believe you." He turns to Dean. "It really was a random mugging, huh?"

"Looks like," Dean says, as the couple embrace on the couch, sobbing apologies to each other. "That should be everyone, right? We're done? He should be gone?"

The temperature in the room drops again. "Ah, there we go," Dean says, gesturing at Sam. "About time he showed up. You done, Arthur?'

The spirit appears in the corner again, shimmery and unclear. It still looks uncommonly furious.

"What now?" Dean asks it. "What is it?"

* * *

"_Confess_!" Arthur says again, pointing. There are three bangs in quick succession then Arthur disappears.

"What does that mean?" Dean whirls around to Sam, frustrated. "Three minutes?"

Sam runs a hand through his hair. "I…I don't know! Maybe?"

"I thought we got everyone. _Shit!_" Dean stalks to the group. "Who the _fuck _hasn't said anything? You realize he will _kill you _if you stay quiet, right?"

The silence is terrifying. The people on the couches fidget, toss glances at each other. Nobody says a word.

"_Please_," Sam says, anything to break the silence. "I understand this is difficult, I do. Lots of hurtful and shameful things have been brought up tonight. But you have to complete it. You have to survive. _Please_."

All the air seems to be sucked from the room. Nobody speaks.

"Dammit!" Dean suddenly turns around and punches the wall, leans against it. "How much longer have we got, Sam?"

Sam closes his eyes. He feels the seconds go by in his head. "Less than a minute."

Dean throws his hands up in the air, whirls away from the wall. "Guess we're going to find out who's willing to die to keep their secret." He says icily, casting a look at the assembled group. He leans back against the wall, arms crossed, waiting.

"Dean—" Sam objects, but Dean just shakes his head.

"We did all we can, dude," Dean says. "This part we can't do. This part, they have to do."

Sam bites the inside of his cheek. Time passes.

10 seconds…9…8…7…

No words. Dean twitches against the wall, but says nothing.

6…5…4…3

Sam closes his eyes and prays.

2…1…0

Silence.

Dean is so tense Sam thinks he's going to snap in half any second now. "Is everyone alright?" He asks tersely. The group looks around at each other, at themselves, give hesitant nods.

Sam feels light-headed. "Are…are you sure? Nobody?"

Dean sighs deep, turns to Sam. "Maybe we had this one wrong, dude." He mutters. "Maybe that wasn't a countdown. Maybe it was a longer one. What do you think?"

Sam closes his eyes, covers them with his hand. "I…I don't know. I don't know."

He can feel the blood pumping in his head. It feels loud. Really loud.

"Sam?"

Dean is holding onto his arms, hoisting him up, trying to keep him upright. Sam notes woozily that he didn't notice that he had started to fall.

"Sammy? Sam? Hey! Hey, Sam!"

Dean's voice feels years away. Sam hits the floor (his brother can't fight gravity for very long) and feels a deep pain inside his body. He coughs one, feels something spray onto his hands, and opens his eyes. His hands are covered in blood.

He looks up into Dean's terrified face, looks down again.

_Shit_.

* * *

"_Sammy_!"

Sam's head is pounding dully. He stares at his brother. "Dean," He says weakly. "I think Arthur's mad at me."

"No shit, dude." Dean curls a hand around his bicep. It's shaking, almost imperceptibly. "What does he want with you?"

Damian shoots to his feet. "He obviously has something to confess! Say what you need to say so we can get the hell out of here!"

"Shut up!" Dean snaps, then addresses the room at large "What do you _want _with him?"

Sam feels something give inside. It's painful. "Damian's—Damian's right." He gasps out. "I think…I think he wants me to con…confess."

Dean squeezes his arm tighter. "Sam?"

"I don't know what," Sam says, closing his eyes. "I don't know what he wants me to say. I never knew him. I don't know why he's doing this."

"We must be missing something." Dean turns to eye the other people in the room. His confidence, the slight air of playfulness he always wears on hunts, his mischievous professionalism, have all disappeared. "What are you keeping from us?"

"We've told you everything," Kristin says tearfully. "Isn't this enough? Do you think I have anything else that's more shameful than what I've already said? I think _he_," She nods at Sam. "Is the one that needs to step up now."

Dean points at them "_Don't_…"

"Dean, stop," Sam swats at his brother weakly, swallowing back something metallic-tasting. "Let's…let's solve this. What does he want me to… confess?"

Dean tenses. "We're on a time limit here, Sam—"

"I know," Sam says. "I know. But I'm not dead yet. Sofia dropped immediately. I didn't. That's why you gotta help me think. Do you remember anything…around here that we might have hunted at some point?"

"No," Dean shakes his head. "Sammy, I think if it were a hunting thing, it'd be after me too. It's just after you."

"I…" Sam tries to think past the pounding in his head. "I didn't know him personally though. It's not like I knew that he was a father. Or that he was beat up. Or that…"

He freezes. _Oh._

"Mark," He croaks out, craning his neck to the group on the sofas. "Arthur. You adopted him. He was twenty-three. What…what happened to his parents?"

Mark frowns. "Uh. Some sort of accident, I think. Another state. They died when he was a baby. Less than a year old."

"Of what?" Sam whispers. "How?"

"A house fire." Mark replies. "Why?"

* * *

Sam's heart _drops_. "Dean." He whispers, clutching at his brother's wrist.

Dean's face is pale. "I know," He says, eyes wide, breathing deliberately even. "Doesn't mean it's—"

"Come on, Dean." Sam leans against the door. "Did Arthur start to…act weird?" He asks the Herrings. "About…about a year ago?"

"Yes." Tilly speaks out this time, almost unintelligible. "He started having nightmares. He stopped eating. He…he threw away all his books."

"Books?" Dean asks. "What books?"

"His favorite books." Mark says. "He loved…like, those mystery novels. Has ever since he was a kid. Sherlock Holmes, you know. And…and that French one. The famous one."

Sam gasps a cough, tries to hide the blood on his hands. He knows that Dean sees it anyway. "Poirot?" He whispers, dropping his hands. He feels a laugh building up. What the _fuck _is his life? "Hercule Poirot?"

"Yeah! Yeah, that's the one." Mark nods.

Dean echoes him. "What the _fuck_? What the _fuck, _Sammy?"

"I think…" Sam wheezes. He's running out of time. "I think I know. I think.." He clears his throat.

"I didn't save you." He chokes out. He doesn't try to hide the blood this time. "You reached out to me. I didn't believe you. I'm sorry. I failed you. I'm sorry."

Dean's hand makes it way to his shoulder "Sam?" He asks, worried.

Before he can say more, there's a gust of wind and the spirit appears in the corner. He's more stable, a clearer image, and Sam hears Tilly chokes in response.

Dean swears and places himself in front of Sam, but it isn't necessary. The ghost—Arthur—looks at the group, lets his eyes travel to Sam, and then nods. He disappears in a burst of light. The kitchen door swings open. Dean swears again, shocked, when it reveals 7 confused, lethargic cats, who spill into the room.

And then, it's over.

* * *

They send everyone home with the cats. Kristen takes the one that belonged to Sofia, and Mark and Tilly take in Joseph's. Dean tells Mark and Tilly to call the police half an hour after they all depart, to take care of Sofia's body. "She just collapsed, you hear me?" He says. "There's nothing here to connect you to foul play. You'll be completely fine."

Sam is able to stand up after a few minutes, weak and winded, but fine. Dean cautiously asks for a hospital visit, but Sam shuts him down with a promise that he'll let him know if he starts feeling worse. "Can't risk ghost mojo, dude. We don't know what he's been doing to mess people up."

They're able to make their getaway pretty fast. Dean lasts about two minutes in the car before he blurts out "What the hell happened, Sam?"

Sam sighs. "He was one of them, Dean. He was one of the kids. The ones like me."

"Yeah, I figured that." Dean says. "I know that part. But. Why'd he want to hurt you? What the hell were you apologizing for? And what's with fucking _Poirot?_"

Sam snorts. "Um. Well. Remember when I had that dream? When I dreamed about Poirot asking for help?"

Dean glances at him. "Yeah." He says cautiously.

"I…I think that was Arthur." Sam says. "I think I had that dream the day Arthur died. I think he probably had some…telepathic power, maybe? Dream walking? Something like that. I think he tried to reach out to someone when he was dying, and pinged me. And I ignored him."

Dean's hands tighten on the wheel. "Why Poirot?" He asks.

"I don't know, man. He was a big fan. Maybe he could read that I was too?" Sam's suddenly struck with a thought. "Or maybe…maybe he was trying to tell us something. Like, he wanted us to recognize that he wanted a Poirot-style confession circle to move on. He wanted us to do some of that work for him, maybe. I don't think he thought about it too hard, to be fair. He was dying at the time."

"And the cats?"

"I think that was maybe to get our attention? To get us there." He pauses. "To get me there. Before he started with killing people who wouldn't confess. Like Joseph."

"That's some wild shit, Sam." Dean says, shaking his head. "We just attract all the fucking weird ones, don't we? Shit."

"I think it's just me." Sam says softly.

Dean swears. Suddenly, he pulls over, jerking to a stop at the side of the road. "You feeling guilty about this, Sam?" He asks, nose flaring, furious. "Are you?"

Sam jerks, surprised. "I…"

"Because there's nothing you could have done. How the hell were you supposed to infer all of that from speaking to fucking _Poirot_? We don't even know if that was what he was trying to do! You had nothing to confess about. You had nothing to be guilty for. What you _should _feel bad about, though, is fucking blaming yourself before you've even done anything wrong. And for things that are out of your control."

Sam sits there through the tirade. He feels something sting at his eyes. "Arthur thought I should."

Dean leans back against his seat. "Arthur was a ghost, Sam." He says, sounding tired. "He wasn't in his right mind. He just wanted rest."

Sam deliberately evens out his breathing. "I'm sorry." He says. "I don't mean to…drag you down with this. With all the guilt stuff. I'm working on it."

Dean starts the car. It sounds loud in the loaded silence. "I know you are." He says.

The Impala merges onto the road, picking up speed. The road is empty of cars, and it's only about 2 pm. Sam thinks it felt like they'd been in that house for days. Or maybe minutes. He can't tell.

Sam smiles. "Does this mean you're not gonna watch for Ingrid Bergman anymore?"

"Sam," Dean says, with affectionate, exasperated finality. "Shut up."

_Maybe_, Sam thinks, as Dean takes the right that'll get them back to the motel. _I'll get him the book for his birthday_.

END


End file.
